


Private Hell

by Morgana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Foot Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer Sam turned fifteen was one of the hardest of Dean's life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Hell

The summer after Sam's fifteenth birthday was one of the worst of Dean's life. Not because of the heat, although spending two weeks in Nevada in the middle of August was far from comfortable, and not because of anything hunting-related, even if he  _was_  missing out on the chance to hunt an actual harpy. No, his private hell had one name: Sam.  
  
At some point, Dean's little brother had gone from dorky to hot, his gangly arms and legs transformed into long, sleek limbs that were just made to wrap around a lover, and it might be all kinds of sick, but Dean really wanted to be that lover. He wanted to lay Sammy out on a bed, a table - hell, the hood of the Impala had featured in more than one daydream - and explore him, learn him all over again with hands and mouth until he begged him to stop. (Of course, in Dean's fantasies, he was usually begging for more, but he was willing to allow for the other eventually.) He told himself that Sam was too young for the things Dean wanted to do for him, and then there was the fact that he was his  _brother_ , but none of that seemed to matter that summer.  
  
It might've been easier to resist if Sam had bothered to wear some freaking clothes, but all he ever seemed to have on was a pair of cutoffs, threadbare and faded and way too short for him after his most recent growth spurt and those stupid sandals. The sandals were enough to bring a better man than Dean to his knees - Dean had never expected to be turned on by somebody's freaking feet - they were  _feet_ , for Chrissake! But all he had to do was watch Sam absently slip his foot in and out of those worn Birkenstocks and he was hard enough to cut glass. It was embarrassing; he was nineteen, and he should have more control over himself than that. In desperation, he tried shaming Sam into wearing more clothing; he called him a rent boy, barked at him that he'd let him know when they needed money bad enough for him to walk the streets, but none of it worked. Sam just ducked his head and blushed, or rolled his eyes at him, but in either case, he kept wearing the cutoffs and sandals.  
  
And then as if all that wasn't bad enough, he started going barefoot right around the time he turned into the world's biggest tease. It seemed like every time Dean turned around, Sam was always sucking on a lollipop or one of those goddamned popsicles that were basically giant frozen dicks, and if he wasn't doing that, he was giving Dean these sly little smiles that threatened to drive him around the bend. Dean had tried his best to ignore it all, telling himself that Sam was just experimenting with the power of his own sexuality, that once he realized exactly how hot he was it would all get better, but then Sam took to shoving his feet into Dean's lap whenever they sat down to watch TV, and that was the last freaking straw.  
  
Dean snapped. He couldn't do what he wanted, which was to pull one of those long, elegant feet up snug against his aching dick and rock up against it, fucking the curve of the sole until he came in hot spurts over the warm, bare flesh, so he did the next best thing. He screamed at Sam, told him to quit acting like a whore and a cheap cockslut, yelled at him to keep his feet and every other body part away from Dean, then actually offered to pimp him out like the two-dollar hooker he was acting like, since he was obviously looking to get fucked hard with the way he was acting and displaying. At the time, he hadn't thought about the words that poured from his mouth - he'd been too busy trying to keep from pinning Sam down and kissing him senseless, not stopping until they were both covered in come from head to foot, but once he slammed out of the house, it all came back and he'd headed straight for the nearest bar to drown his desire and his shame in drink.  
  
Three days later, he gathered up the courage to go home, but Sam wasn't there. It took two weeks to find him, two weeks that seemed to stretch out into years, every single second of which were spent in fear and despair unlike anything he'd ever known before. Dean hadn't realized there could be anything even harder than living with the temptation that Sam posed until he'd had to live without it. And once he had, he promised himself that he'd never, ever do it again.


End file.
